


Fighters

by fresianm



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: M/M, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-05
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-07 12:45:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fresianm/pseuds/fresianm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I guess there’s something wrong with the fact that we are ignoring the rather glaring tension in our relationship. But we neither of us are good at solving problems that have anything to do with feelings, and alone we are dangerous to ourselves and to others. So we keep each other stable, and wait for the day when the tension blows up in our faces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This will (if all goes as planned) be a 3 part fic.
> 
> My beta was the lovely Irene, who kept me sane through writing it.
> 
> And award for person who can't think of a decent title to save her life goes to: EMMY! 
> 
> *crickets*
> 
> Enjoy. 
> 
> *more crickets*

“Wake up, idiot.”

The hiss is an unwelcome visitor to my slumber, as is the (rather painful) stomp on my right foot. I let out a small yelp, and receive a poignant glare from Mrs. Morrison.

“Sorry ma’am, I hit my knee on the desk.” I mutter, with a murderous glance at John.

“What was that for?” I seethe after she returns to her lecture.

“I was saving your ass from a talk after class with Mrs. What’s-her-name.” John whispers back.

“A simple 'wake up, Sherlock' would have done the job well enough; there was no need to bruise my right pinky toe.”

John rolls his eyes and shifts his attention back to the board. “Revenge for the scrape on my knee.” He murmurs a few seconds later.

I grumble unintelligibly. That scrape was in no way my fault. The fact that my feet happened to be in his path does not make it my fault when he goes head over heels into a bush. It was his own bloody fault for not paying attention.

After class we start to walk home - well, to John’s home - in rather tense silence. Something has been off lately in our... well, friendship, I suppose is what you call it, though I don’t think that word fits. Relationship would imply sex, and despite the assumptions of everyone in the whole damn town, we do not have sex (regrettably, but that train of thought will get me in trouble). There really is no word. We’re not just friends, and we’re not boyfriends. We’re just a unit. We function together. We can each manage alone, but when we’re together we’re at our best. We’re happy and focused and our minds are clear. I need John so my brain doesn’t get trapped on the launch pad and overrun with thoughts. John silences the buzz in my mind that at times drives me mad. He needs me because I keep him stable. His short temper gets the better of him quite often, and he has nightmares, the contents of which he has never told me. He needs a full time job to keep him focused and sane, and I can _certainly_ provide that.

“I need to pick up something at Tescos.” John states suddenly, interrupting my thoughts. I nearly jump.

“Hmm?”

“Sleeping pills.”

I scowl. “They’re not going to help your nightmares. In fact, some have been proven to cause -”

“Well what else do you suggest I try?” John snaps.

Silence.

“You don’t need to come with.” John mutters and our paths split. I sigh and turn to head to my own home. As much as I would like to just forget about it, I can think of nothing but John. Fights are fairly normal for us. I am annoying, stubborn, and impossible, and I know this. But John also knows this, and has from the start; he has a remarkable capacity to deal with it. That is not our problem. It is something much bigger than that - something I, for once, cannot deduce. I kick furiously at a stone and force John out of my mind. _He’s just a friend. This is just a fight. Stop caring so damn much. Turn it off._

* * * * *

Easier said than done, apparently.

The soft glow from my phone is taunting me. For the past three hours I have done nothing but let my mind run wild. From kicking myself over every word I have said to John over the past month to fuming over every word he’s said to me, not to mention trying to repress the absurd sexual fantasies about my best friend that make frequent appearances in my dreams.

_Just text him you’re sorry._

_You could fix this._

_Ask him what has caused your relationship has become so screwed up, other than the fact that you dream about fucking him._

_Oh for fuck’s sake, SHUT. UP._

I groan, and roll over (with great effort) to grab my phone. I punch in several texts before deleting them and trying again. Finally I settle for absolutely pointless and almost insultingly thoughtless.

_What are you doing? SH_

Several agonizing minutes. The clock on my phone is definitely taunting me. I resist the urge to throw it at the wall.

_Studying. JW_

_Too busy for me to come over? SH_

_Yeah, probably. JW_

_Okay. That’s fine. See you tomorrow. SH_

_See you. JW_

I dream about him all night.

* * * *

“I’ve got a doctor’s appointment.” John informs me the next day after school.

“Bullshit. Your physical is set for April and there is absolutely nothing ailing you that would require a doctor’s attention, physical or otherwise.”

John ignores me and begins to walk off. I grab his sleeve.

“Oh for Christ’s sake. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Like hell!”

“Leave it.”

“No.”

_“I said leave it, Sherlock.”_

I leave it.

* * * *

For the next ten days, John avoids me. He comes up with lame excuse after lame excuse to keep from seeing me after school. I have apparently become the plague. I call him out on his excuses the first few times, but then give up. It only serves to piss him off more.

On the 11th, he is silent as we walk out of the school grounds. No scolding, no excuse to avoid me, no arguments. I begin to take the route to my house out of habit, and out of the corner of my eye I see him stop and cock his head at me. I meet his eyes for a brief moment - tired, worn down, lonely. He raises an eyebrow. I exhale and follow him. Perhaps I’m not contagious anymore. Or maybe he just doesn’t care if he gets sick.

John snacks on a biscuit and I drink a cup of tea, then head up to his room. His room is a dull yellow, and always ridiculously tidy. He stares blankly at his textbook, and I lay back on his bed, my hands tucked beneath my head. I haven’t been here in what feels like an eternity, though it’s been but two weeks. I study the familiar cracks in his ceiling and run my hands over the duvet. For two years, since I was 16, I have come here after school nearly every day. We talk, watch crap telly, do schoolwork (well, John does schoolwork, I watch and comment and complain), argue, or sometimes we do nothing at all; simply lay next to each other and stare at the ceiling in comfortable silence. Today we’re both doing nothing, but it’s not the same. It’s tense and awkward and uncomfortable. John’s home is where I feel safest, yet I’d rather be anywhere but here.

John is bending the corner of the page in his textbook and biting his lip. My eyes wander and I catch sight of a new crack in the ceiling.

“You kicked the wall again.”

John grinds his teeth together. “I was angry.”

“Clearly.” I am silent for a minute. “The ceiling should probably get patched up soon before it collapses on you.”

John nods but doesn’t respond.

I leave a half hour later. John touches my hand gently as I stand up to go. He looks like he has something to say, but can’t gather the courage to say it. He sighs.

“See you tomorrow?” He asks, giving a weak smile.

He tries to at least make it seem like there’s nothing wrong with us. I nod, and walk out the door, having accomplished absolutely nothing.

* * * *

I dream about him again that night. I wake up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat and hard. I roll over and groan into my pillow. _Fuck._

* * * *

The next day I am restless and sour and feel sick from the buzzing in my head. I can’t turn it off. I can hardly sit still in my seat. I meet John’s eyes at one point; he knows what’s wrong.

_Make it stop._

After 4th period, I snap at a kid in the hallway, and he punches me in the face. John shoves him against a locker and whispers something to him. I don’t hear what he says, but it appears to work because the kid goes pale and backs down instantly. John stops the bleeding from my nose, then we leave. I can’t stand to stay, and John doesn’t dare to leave me alone in this state. Once home, I curl up into a ball on his bed. He brings me tea and rubs his fingers through my hair, talking to me quietly. I don’t know what about. The buzz dulls, and I exhale. “Thank you.” I whisper. I wonder if this is something normal friends do. Probably not. Then again, when have we ever been normal?

I don’t leave that night. John lends me clothes to sleep in, and I sleep next to him in his bed. We do this fairly frequently; we are past the point of being awkward about it. He has nightmares and wakes up shaking and screaming. I hold his hand and talk to him, just as he did for me, until he calms down. This is why we need each other - both of our minds are fucked up.  He falls back asleep curled up against me. When I am sure he is fully asleep, I kiss his temple softly.

* * * *

I guess there’s something wrong with the fact that we are ignoring the rather glaring tension in our relationship. But we neither of us are good at solving problems that have anything to do with feelings, and alone we are dangerous to ourselves and to others. So we keep each other stable, and wait for the day when the tension blows up in our faces.

Inevitably, it does.

* * * *

_Fuck._

There is a giant, gaping fucking hole in the wall from where John kicked it. The drywall is crumbled around it and I stare at it blankly.

John is... well, I’m not exactly sure what John is doing. I had been fully aware this was coming. I had been walking a tightrope for the past two weeks. My one mistake today was a sarcastic comment on his concern for a test tomorrow, and off he went. He is ranting - more  to himself than to me - about Harry, about his parents, about school, about my behavior. All things he has dealt with his whole life. Suddenly, without warning, John grabs my collar and slams me against the wall. “Dammit, Sherlock! I can’t fucking do this!” He looks me straight in the eye, breathing ragged; his eyes are almost foreign to me, eyes that I have looked into god knows how many times. I squirm slightly, but it only takes me a few seconds to realize that it’s useless. He is stronger than I had realized - no wonder the other students are cautious of him.

I am paralyzed with fear. A fear not for my own safety, but for losing John. He is my only friend in this world. The only person who would ever stand up for the freak in the back of the class. The only person who could deal with me as a friend. And looking into his eyes, I know I’m losing him. John needs a friend who can support him and love him like a proper human being. I’m not a human. I’m a machine, and John knows it. Everyone knows that. I will always be the freak. I am in love with someone who could never love me back, and I’m wounding him, and I need to stop.

My mind snaps back the present. _Emotions: Off. Logic: On. Deduce._ I know he’s not insane. He has a short temper and chronic nightmares, but otherwise he is mentally stable. So, issue? Well, the only abnormal thing in his life - me. _Remove Sherlock, save John._ Escape. Not for my safety, but for his. My hands are the only things not pinned to the wall at the moment. I don’t want to injure him. I grab his forearms firmly. I don’t try to force them off of me, I simply massage them - two fingers, rub in small circles. I meet his stare, and I know my face is blank. My eyes are perfectly clear and calm. _Mode: Machine._ I can see his anger begin to dissipate. The storm is passing. He’s going to be fine. His grip loosens, and then, unexpectedly, he collapses. He’s exhausted. From nightmares, from dealing with me, from stress. I catch him instinctively, and gently deposit him on his bed. I cover him with a blanket and slip out of the room.

* * * *

_I’m sorry. JW_

_There’s no need to be. SH_

_Don’t fucking start that, yes there is. I shoved you against a wall. JW_

_You were perfectly within your right to. I’m not meant to be a friend, John. I’m a destructive force. I am sorry I did this to you. Take the sleeping pills I put by your bedside, and go to sleep. You’ll be fine after a while. SH_

_You’re not leaving me. JW_

_You’ll be fine. SH_

_No. JW_

_Fuck. John just leave it I’l_

_Sherlock? JW_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’m a soldier now. I’m fighting someone else’s war because I can’t fight my own anymore.

_Dear John,_

_Let me first assure you that I am alive and, for the most part, well. My absence is entirely of my own free will. You have not seen me for a nine month and three days, and a nine months and three days ago is when, not only did I decide to break off our friendship, but my father arrived home unexpectedly, went into a drunken rage, and broke my nose (as well as caused some other insignificant injuries, which are healed now, as is my nose. Although I must say it looks a bit odd - I may have set it wrong?). Shortly afterwards, I left. Mycroft is still there (as far as I know), and I am sure he is capable of (if little else) caring for and protecting Mummy._

_Please understand that my leaving was no fault of yours. I left because I am not built to be a friend, and I was destroying you.  I was the problem, so I did what I thought to be best; I removed myself from your life, albeit a little more unceremoniously that I had intended, but I am afraid you must blame my father for that._

_You sent me 347 texts, which stopped abruptly 29 days after I left. The reason is unknown to me, but I hope it is because you have moved on, for your own sake. I am sorry to have ignored them, but it was for security reasons only. Although I had decided to leave you, I did not intend to completely cut off communication and disappear for no reason. For all my faults, it was never my desire to cause you more distress than necessary. For safety reasons the return address will lead you to a very nice old lady who, upon answering the door, will tell you quite a bit about the herbal soothers for her dreadful hip. Texting and/or calling would be too risky, and at the moment I cannot spare the money for a pay phone.  So I am writing. I am sincere when I say I hope you have moved on. I write because I feel you are owed an explanation.You are under no expectations to write back. However if you choose to do so, writing it to the return address will ensure it gets in my hands._

_I feel you are also entitled to an update on my situation. I am indeed homeless. Please do not worry too much. I am finding ways of getting the necessary amounts of food, and a young (rather easily manipulated) girl doing an internship at a hospital nearby lets me in to look at corpses to satisfy my brain enough to keep me from going entirely mad._

_If you come away from reading this letter with nothing else, please know that I am truly and deeply sorry. Not because apology is one of the few human conventions I have learned from you, but because you allowed me into your heart and I hurt you._

_SH_

_* * * *_

_Mr. Holmes,_

_Your letter to Mr. John Watson has been redirected, as the recipient no longer lives at the specified address._

_Thank you for your patience._

_\- Royal Mail_

_* * * *_

_Sherlock,_

_Your letter was redirected to my station in Afghanistan The texts stopped because I joined the army. For all I know, this could be the last letter I ever have the opportunity to write, and, god help me, I’m glad it’s to you. Because I want to explain this if it’s the last thing I do._

_The strain in our friendship was not caused by you. You are not a destructive force, Sherlock. You were the opposite to me. The only destructive power you possessed was leaving me, and you just had to use it, didn’t you? Our friendship was falling apart because of me, and I regret now that I didn’t tell you before. I fell in love with you, Sherlock. Of all the people in the world, I fell in love with Sherlock fucking Holmes, and that is what was destroying us. And I am sorry._

_But leaving was never the solution, Sherlock. Even though I was in love with you and knew you would never return that love, I still needed you. It’s fucked up, but it’s true. And I haven’t ‘moved on’. I went halfway across the world trying to, and I still can’t. I still love you, and it’s killing me. You shouldn’t have left, Sherlock. You should have trusted me enough to let me know what was going on. I would have fucking came with you._

_I’m a soldier now. I’m fighting someone else’s war because I can’t fight my own anymore. I will never move on, Sherlock. Don’t delude yourself into thinking that. I fell in love with you, and no one can move on from that. I’m angry with you and I want to hate you, but I miss you, Sherlock. Of all the things to do, why the hell did you think leaving was going to fix this?_

_JW_

_* * * *_

_Dear John,_

_I am sorry. I have no understanding of the human heart. When I was young I built up a wall around mine because I didn’t want to get hurt. I didn’t understand people and they didn’t understand me; I thought that was just the way my world would always function. I didn’t think I would meet you. But you understood me and accepted me, and you started tearing down those walls. And it wasn’t painful, those two years were the happiest of my life. I fell in love with you too, John, and it’s taken me 9 months of being apart from you to realize that. I’m sorry I misunderstood my own heart and yours. I really fucked things up, and I am sincerely sorry._

_You don’t have to keep writing me if it would cause you more pain than good._

_But John, please, please, please come back alive._

_SH_

_* * * *_

_Sherlock,_

_It’s almost comical that it took this whole fiasco for you to realize that. I mean jesus, are your heart and head 10 miles apart? Do they have have tea once a year?_

_Sherlock, I know you had walls. And I was trying my best to tear them down. I felt like I was failing, and it infuriated me. And I knew I was in love with you but I didn’t want to ruin what we had. I didn’t want to scare you. Because I knew I needed you, and I wanted to believe you needed me. I couldn’t ignore you if I wanted to. I can’t even find it in myself to be mad at you. I miss you Sherlock. Letters... they aren’t...They aren’t your voice, your touch, your hand when I have nightmares or your somewhat infuriatingly calm words when my temper snaps. I don’t even know that I’ll ever see you again. Is writing all you can do? I can send you money if you need some. I want to help you, Sherlock. I don’t want you out in the streets starving and living with teenage heroin addicts. If nothing else, I want to know you’re safe. In return for my promise to try my best to make it back in one piece._

_JW_

_PS: How the fuck did you convince this old woman to receive letters from some guy in Afghanistan and give them to a homeless skinny pale teenager who at this point probably at least LOOKS like he’s on heroin?_

_* * * *_

_Dear John, You have managed to see comedic value in a situation like this. You deserve a medal, but I must admit you have made me giggle._

_Do you even have money? I would not ask you to send any in a million years, given what I have put you through, but I will not burn it if you send it._

_At this point, apologizing again is useless. So I will simply say that I miss you too. I miss your voice and your uncanny ability to silence the buzzing that plagues me nearly constantly and your loyal protection (not that the crackheads are really that violent. They’re more amusing than anything. Given the choice, I’d pick their company over that of any of the students at our old school. But I must admit that your method of protection was rather sexy, and I can’t help missing being turned on.)_

_If you do choose to send money, I may be able to call you via pay phone. It might be a bit more satisfactory than these fucking pieces of paper._

_SH_

_PS: I think you are forgetting, I am a very charming young man. As well as an excellent liar, if I may say so myself. She even invites me to tea on occasion._

_* * * *_

_Sherlock,_

_Enclosed is 50 pounds (Soldiers are paid, shockingly enough.) and a number that you can reach me on.You better fucking call me. And buy some food._

_Oh believe me, love, two can play that game. Curling up next to you after having nightmares was possibly the best thing about them. Especially because for some reason you wearing my clothes was incredibly hot._

_JW_

_PS: Why was I never allowed to see this ‘charm’ that you supposedly possess? Or does it only work on old ladies?_

* * * *

My hands are shaking, and I’m leaning against the side of the booth.

_Oh for fuck’s sake, just do it, you twat. You owe him this._

I exhale through my nose.

“Sergeant Peters. Please state your name and who you wish to contact.”

“Sh -” _PULL IT TOGETHER_. “Sherlock Holmes for John Watson.”

“Please hold.”

_Jesus fuck._

“Hello?”

_Oh god._

“John.”

I hear him swallow. “Sherlock.”

I clear my throat. “You know, after 11 months, just your voice saying my name is enough to turn me on.”

I just know he’s smirking.

“You have no idea.” I grin, but it fades quickly. The silence is deafening.

“Er, how long are you signed on for?”

From the pause before he responds, I know the answer’s not one I’m going to like.

“Four years, assuming I do not get injured or.. erm, killed.”

I lean against the side of the booth and exhale heavily. “Well, the first year is almost over.” I hesitate, and swallow hard. “I should never have left you. I could have prevented this mess if my heart wasn’t so damn fucked up and disconnected from my head. I’m so sorry, John.”

“Sherlock, love, it’s alright.”

 I smile slightly. “I like that name.”

“What, ‘love’?”

“Yeah. It shines in comparison to what the crackheads have christened me.”

“Hm?”

I roll my eyes. “Cheekbones.”

John giggles. “Well, it fits. You’ll have to think of one for me.”

“I’ll get right on that.” I sigh. “I’m running out of quarters.”

“Write me, and call me when you get a chance. I can keep sending you money, if it means I get to hear your voice.”

I smile. “I will, I promise. Goodbye, John.” I say softly.

“Goodbye, Sherlock.” He swallows. “Talk to you soon.”

The phone clicks and I feel myself going faint.

_Pull it together. Don’t you fucking dare faint._

John will soldier on, and I will function.

_Mode: Machine._

* * * *

_Mr. Sherlock Holmes,_

_This letter is being sent to you in regards to Captain John Watson, as you are his only known contact. Mr. John Watson suffered a gunshot wound to his left shoulder on March 2nd of this year. He is currently under the care of a military hospital in Afghanistan, and will be shipped back to London on March 15th, where he will receive further treatment in St. Bartholomew’s hospital._

_~ Military Base Camp, Afghanistan._

_* * * *_

_Error. Machine: Compromised._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We have all the time in the world."
> 
> Do we?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta by my lovely friends Irene and Kem <3
> 
> Eheheh I did enjoy writing this n_n
> 
> This fic will now probably be four parts instead of three because of an unexpected plot twist ;)
> 
> Enjoy :)

“Something got ya down, cheekbones?” Mike, a gangly and obnoxious teen, taunts.

I do my best to appear menacing as I look up from my crouched position by an old brick wall. “Back off, Mike.” I snarl. “Not in the mood.”

 He raises an eyebrow, as if challenging me, but seems to change his mind. He shrugs and backs down. “Chill, cheekbones, I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

 I roll my eyes then shut them, taking a drag from my cigarette. I exhale slowly.

 Five days.

* * * *

I whirl around, and the corner of my mouth twitches. It’s perfect.

“Will you be needing the second room?”

“I would plan on it, yes.”

Mrs. Hudson narrows her eyes. “I see. Might that change?”

I ignore her and clear my throat. “As far as rent goes, I’m not - ”

She smiles and shakes her head. “I’ll let a month pass, dear, but just this once. Once you’re both settled and can get an income you can make it up. I’m happy to help you start out, especially seeing as he’s injured and all, the poor fellow.”

I give her my brightest smile and kiss her on the cheek. “Brilliant!”

Two days.

* * * *

The stares I’m getting would be comical if I weren’t in such a foul mood.

Two hours and forty three minutes of pacing later, they still won’t let me in to see him. This is absurd. My new shirt is too tight, my trousers are making my legs itch, and I am sweating profusely. I approach the front desk again, and the receptionist gives an audible irritated sigh and glares up at me.

“Look, sir,” she almost growls “I’m really sorry but I cannot let you -”

“Let me in to see John Watson, or so help me god I will fight my way in there. I have not seen him in over a year, the last time I saw him we were in the middle of a fight, and I fucking love him, so let me in.”  Well now I’ve definitely got the attention of everyone in the waiting room. The receptionist is wide-eyed, but says nothing. I sigh, and lean forward slightly.

“Hmm. What have you been up to? A bit naughty? Slept with an IT computer geek last night. Pretty sloppy job of covering up the evidence, if you ask me.” I motion to her neck. “Sleep late, _darling_?” I sneer. “Obviously not enough time to put on makeup. Bit low on money, had to go to mum and dad for rent last month, boyfriend wouldn’t pitch in much. Oh, and him! 6 years, and you’re still cheating on him? Must be a real idiot if he hasn’t figured it out by now. No wonder you can’t stand him, clever girl like you. Staying with him because you can’t afford to live alone, bit annoyed with him for not pulling his weight. Is this what caused your latest spree?” I lean forward farther, my eyes narrowing. “I suggest you let me in if you want your boyfriend, who should be bringing you in lunch in about...” I glance at my watch, “half an hour, to remain in the dark about computer geek, sweetheart.”

The receptionist goes pale, the whole room goes silent - they heard every word. Even a baby has stopped crying, as if on cue. I smirk. She looks furious and more than a little embarrassed. She picks up the phone. “I’m sending someone...” She looks up at me, raising an eyebrow.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sherlock Holmes to see John Watson.”  She hangs up and glares up at me. “Floor 3, room 332.” I nod and stride out the double doors, all eyes still trained on me.

When I arrive at the door Molly, the primary girl working in autopsy who has been letting me examine bodies for the past year, is there and bites her lip. “Sherlock, I just wanted to say that I’m..” I glare, tapping my foot impatiently. “I’m just glad he came back alive, alright? I know you missed him. I’m happy for you, is all.” She gushes, cheeks red. I nod and soften my expression, for her sake. She bites her lip, as if debating whether to say more, then turns and walks away quickly.

The moment I step into the room the world comes to a halt and I’m having trouble holding on.

_Breathe. He’s there. He’s alive. Breathe._

He is sound asleep. His left arm is bandaged, and he attached to an IV. Morphine, presumably. He’s breathing through a respirator. “John.” I choke out, even though I’m perfectly aware he can’t hear me. A year was far too long. I fucked up big time. He went off and fought a fucking war just to try and escape me. I injure people when I’m not even there.

I am gripped by the urge to flee. I turn on my heel, and abruptly bump into a nurse. She looks a bit shocked, then gives me a gentle smile. “Sherlock Holmes?”

_I swallow. Focus. Function. I nod._

She smiles again. “So you’re the determined young man who was driving the receptionist up the wall.” For a moment I think she’s going to chew me out, but instead she just winks. “He’s asleep at the moment, we knocked him out with morphine. The turbulence on the flight back bothered his shoulder quite a bit. It shouldn’t be more than an hour.”

I nod dumbly. God, I must appear to be an idiot. “Alright.” I reply shakily.

“You can take a seat, I’m just checking up on him.”

I gladly sit.

She checks his IV and bandage, and adjusts his respirator - it shifted in his sleep. She feels his forehead and frowns. She gives me a reassuring smile. “He’s got a bit of a fever. Weakened immune system. We’ll just have to keep an eye on him so it doesn’t develop into something worse. I’ll leave you, he should be awake soon. Press the button if you need anything.”

“Thank you.” I murmur. At least he has a decent nurse.

The second she leaves I move my chair close to the right side of his bed and take his hand. Callouses. Cold. I feel each of his fingers. I know the bone structure. I memorized it long ago while he slept and never forgot it.

_John. What did I do to you?_

His hands are enough of him to keep me calm for an hour. I warm them in my own. I’m far too terrified of hurting him to touch anything else. He shifts in his sleep multiple times and winces each time. Every few minutes I have to watch his chest just to remind myself he’s alive - his breathing is shallow, but there.

_His respirator is keeping him breathing. The morphine is keeping him asleep. Logic._

I rest my head on his hand and shut my eyes. 75 minutes pass. He stirs, and I sit up. His eyes flutter open. He can’t see me yet - too groggy and he’s looking at the ceiling. He hasn’t processed the warmth enveloping his hand. I stay quiet. Don’t frighten him.

“Water.” He mumbles hoarsely.

I glance around and find a small cup sitting on the table next to his bed. I gently take off his respirator and hold it up to his lips. He still hasn’t registered it’s not a nurse. I consider summoning one but I want just a few minutes alone with him. _Just give me this. Please._

He swallows the water then coughs slightly, and his hand moves to grip at his chest. He’s slowly becoming aware of his surroundings. I feel him flex his hand, he moves his head towards me slightly, and his whole body tenses. I know he recognizes me instantly, despite his grogginess and my largely changed complexion and features. He stares at me for a few long seconds.

“You look like shit.” He mutters.

“You should talk.” I respond.

“Did you eat at all when I was away?”

“Yes.”

“Bullshit.”

I roll my eyes. “If you’re just going to sit there and nag, I’ll call the nurse.”

John groans. He turns to look at me more fully, wincing with the effort. I return his gaze, taking in his face more fully. He is tanned and muscular and very much older. He looks vulnerable, sitting in a hospital bed, almost completely helpless. And I know he hates that. Every raspy breath he takes seems to cause him pain. He grits his teeth and fights back coughs, and his right hand repeatedly moves back and forth between his chest and the bed. Beads of sweat break out on his forehead. All this pain - and it’s all my fault. I bow my head.

_I’m so sorry, John._

He reads my thoughts, and his brow furrows. “Sherlock. Look at me.” He orders, his voice steady. Unfeeling.

_Military._

_Did he become machine-like when he joined the military?_

_No._

_No John._

_Don’t become like me._

“You did what you thought was best. You were trying to protect me.” He sighs, but it results in a painful cough, and he winces.

I squeeze his hand. “John, just rest.” I plead.

He ignores me. “I know you don’t have an understanding of the human heart - even your own. You fucked up, and you hurt me. And maybe I’m an idiot to come back to you and forgive you, but I already have. I can’t live without you, Sherlock.” He is fighting back tears. His shell is already cracking. It’s because of me; I’m destructive. “I love you. I don’t want you to leave, no matter what you put me through. I can’t bear to go through it twice.”

His voice is raw and honest and it tears through my chest like a bullet and god it _hurts._

“Alright.” I say softly and look at him. He looks exhausted. I swallow. “Go back to sleep.”

He tries to put his respirator back on with his left hand; it’s a mistake. He winces and a small whine escapes his lips. I quickly settle the respirator over his mouth and squeeze his hand. _A promise: I’m not going to leave you again, John_.

I watch him drift off.

_I love you too, John._

* * * *

“Would you like to stay overnight?”

My head snaps up. _Ouch._ “What?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” The nurse apologizes. “I was just wondering if you wanted to stay with him tonight.”

I blink, then nod. “Er, sorry, yes.”

“I’m Mariah, Dr. Watson’s primary nurse. I’m afraid I’ll only be able to sneak you in for one night, but I suspect you haven’t seen him in a while.”

I grimace. “Over a year.” I massage the back of my neck. I apparently fell asleep with my head rested on the edge of John’s bed, and now my neck is fantastically sore.

Her expression is sympathetic. “Ah. I can only imagine how hard it must have been.” She sits in a chair on the opposite side of the bed, checking his bandages. “Did he wake up at all?”

“Once, but just for a few minutes.”

She smiles. “Was he glad to see you?”

“I think so, yes.”

“He was talking about you in his sleep before you arrived.” She says softly.

“What did he say?” I ask, almost afraid of the answer.

“He just kept saying he missed you, that you’re forgiven, and that he loves you.”

“Oh.” I exhale. “I really shouldn’t be.” I say quietly. “I left him, and that’s why he got himself in this mess. I have no right to be forgiven.”

The nurse frowns and cocks her head slightly. She feels his forehead for a moment then stands up. “Well, for what it’s worth, I don’t think you deserve to feel guilty.” She squeezes my shoulder. “I’ll bring up a pillow and some food in a bit.”

* * * *

I wake up to sharp tugs on my hair and slight whimpers from the warm body next to my head.

_Oh. John._

I let go of his hand in my sleep and now his hand is instead groping at my hair. He’s sweaty and shaking but still asleep. I don’t want to shake him for fear of hurting his shoulder. Instead I gently remove his hand from my hair and grasp it, then pat his cheek.

“John.” I whisper. “Wake up, John.”

His eyes open and he starts, choking back a scream. He looks at me dazedly, and I can see his eyes begin to register my face; reality flooding back to him.

“I’m here, John.”

He grasps my hand and tries to breathe normally. The gasping is hurting his shoulder. I get up quickly to retrieve a wet cloth, pressing it across his forehead. His breathing, though raspy, is steadying out, but he still shakes and holds onto my hand like a lifeline.

“It’s been awhile since I’ve had you to help me with this.”

I smile sadly. “I know.”

He spends a few minutes calming down completely, then grimaces. “I’m soaked.”

I purse my lips. “It’d be hard getting you out of the robe with the IV and your shoulder.”

“Not to mention getting a new one on.”

I shrug. “You could always go without.”

He has to resist a smile. “I’m sure Maria would appreciate that.”

“She’s seen worse, you know.”

“I was referring more to combination of having you here _while_ I’m naked.”

I roll my eyes. “Shut up.”

John giggles. The sound is even more beautiful than I remember.

An exhausting and frustrating and, judging by John’s frequent swearing, painful half hour later, John is in a new robe and settled back down in bed. I collapse back down into my chair. John is completely out of breath. “Jesus. By now the old robe is probably dry.” I mutter bitterly.

“Shut up, you git. You enjoyed that more than you should have, anyway.” John pokes me in the stomach and I come perilously close to falling over backwards in my chair. I glare. “Asshole.” I mutter. "Tickling isn't playing fair."

He smirks and yawns, which is abruptly interrupted by a fit of coughing. He looks at me for a few moments and his expression is replaced by something I can’t even quite describe. “Fuck, Sherlock, I missed you.” He says softly.

The words are another bullet through my chest.

“John, may I kiss you?”

There is a very long pause, our eyes locked. “God, yes.”

I don’t know how long I’ve waited for this. Maybe it was from the first time I saw him, maybe it was from the first time I calmed him from a nightmare, maybe it was from the first time he shoved an asshole up against a locker in my defense.

I lean over and kiss him. It’s very light and gentle, but it’s enough. I am undone.

_Machine: Not found._

I reluctantly pull back from the kiss only to bury my face in his neck.

“Go back to sleep now, love.” He whispers.

I feel my face fall slightly.

“Sherlock, we’ll see each other in the morning.”

“I know.” I shake my head, trying to clear it. “I’m just... I miss - loved, well I mean -”

_What an intelligent statement, Sherlock Holmes._

John rolls his eyes but his expression is gentle. “Get some rest. We have all the time in the world.”

_Do we?_

* * * *

5:05 AM: I am awoken by John’s violent fit of coughing. He removes his respirator and tries to sit up to take some water. He is having trouble breathing. A lot of trouble.

_Where's that fucking button?_

5:06 AM: John manages to sit up. He takes a sip of water, then collapses with the water still in his hand (second robe: soaked): Unconscious.

_Maria, where are you?_

I shove John’s respirator back over his face.

5:07 AM: John regains consciousness. Lips blue, eyes clouded over, confused. His forehead is on fire: fever at least over 100 degrees F. He’s mumbling about rejoining the front lines; a hurt soldier.

_God dammit, John. YOU’RE the fucking hurt soldier._

"Where's the rest of the regi.. regiment?" He asks, looking me straight in the eye. I'm a stranger to him.

_Maria, I need you. Help me._

I press the button 4 more times.

5:08 AM: Maria arrives, breathless. “Sorry, patient emergen - ” She takes one look at John’s face.

Intercom: “Code blue, floor 3, room 332.”

_Code blue...?_

_Oh._

John has stopped breathing.


End file.
